Jigsaw
by Ice Queen1
Summary: A slight glimpse into the life of the Winchester Brothers in high school, with insights on the two brothers from their teachers, and one incident that allows them to truly see what it means to be a Winchester.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Wish I owned them…and if Jiminy Cricket were here, I'd stomp him flat.

Author's Note: Back by popular demand. AHAHAHA! Yeah, right. Back because I suddenly thought, "I wonder what the teachers' must have thought of the Winchester brothers?" I assume they had to go to at least high school, because Sam went to college, and I don't think they let you in if you have no schooling prior. I could be wrong, but that's what I'm going on. Also, I might be way off character in this, but since I'm making the guys in high school, I don't have much info to go on, except that Sam was apparently a pudgy 12 year old.

By the way, thanks to everyone who told me what that damned car was. I'm now trying to get a buddy of mine to buy it for a cross-country trip from Tucson, AZ, back to good ol' New England. Too bad he looks nothing like Dean… I have a vivid imagination though.

Katie Meyers looked over the files spread across her desk, rubbing her temples in an effort to soothe away her building headache. Her two newest students were proving to be most…difficult. Their files were much help either. They stated the boys had moved over a dozen times in as many years, with only a single parent who was unemployed more often than not. While that might not have been ideal situations, the boys weren't undernourished, they showed up to classes, did their work, and seemed more or less happy.

All right, that might've been a stretch. The youngest boy, age fourteen, Sam, seemed more relaxed and eager to learn and make friends than his eighteen year old brother, Dean. Perhaps it was because Sam didn't have to move during his senior year of high school and forced to leave all of the friends he'd grown up with for as long as his brother. Or perhaps it was just Dean's nature to be belligerent and contradictory. Katie Meyers had seen him much more often than some of her older students who had been in the school for four years, and every time he entered her office, he was always smiling, telling bad jokes, and generally friendly. Which is perhaps why it was so hard to punish him. That boy had a quicksilver tongue that could get him out of trouble just as quickly as it got him in up to his neck.

"Good morning, Principle Meyers! And a lovely day it is, isn't it? Blue skies, warm sun…"

Speak of the Devil…Principle Meyers shook her head. "Mr. Winchester, it's barely noon. Want to explain why you're here so early?"

"Big miscommunication in gym class. I assure you, it's slander. A misrepresentation of events," Dean said, smiling brilliantly.

"Coach says you purposely hit Mr. Brad Renshaw in the face with a football."

"Did not. It slipped. And even then, he should've caught it, what with him being Mr. Star Running Back of the team," Dean protested.

"Mr. Winchester, you've only been in school for what, two and a half months?" Meyers asked patiently.

"I've actually been in school for twelve years, not counting kindergarten. But if you mean in school here specifically, it's forty seven days and…" Dean glanced at his watch. "Four hours and twelve minutes."

"My point is that you've been in here almost every single day! Don't you have something more constructive to do besides pick fights and harass the other students? Mrs. Thompson said she saw you and Mr. Renshaw shouting at one another in the parking lot yesterday afternoon. Care to explain what that was about?"

"He stuck his nose where it didn't belong," Dean snapped.

Katie Meyers had to force herself not to jump at the sudden change in Dean's demeanor. The sunny, cheerful attitude had disappeared to be replaced abruptly by a much darker, threatening expression.

"Mr. Winchester…Dean, if another student has been bothering you, you need to tell a teacher. Don't try and sort it out on your own, you'll be the one in trouble, not him, understand?"

"I'm not being threatened, I'm not being bothered. I don't need or want your help, thank you, Principle Meyers." Dean stood abruptly. "And if that's all, I have a fascinating Latin class to get back to."

Meyers sighed, leaning back in her chair. "You're a bright boy, Dean. I'd hate for you to throw it all away because of another bully. Go back to class. Ms. Papadeas will give you a hall pass."

With that he was gone, but Katie still worried. Dean _was_ smart, when he decided to care about something. She often wondered if he was bored in his classes, or just didn't care about some of them. His grades were all over the place, from A's in foreign languages to F's in math and certain sciences. The fact that it was only specific sciences that obviously interested him was why Katie was leaning more towards 'not caring'. He did surprisingly well in chemistry, but his physics grade was subterranean.

His brother, on the other hand, seemed to love school. He excelled in everything, sciences, languages, math…the only thing that he didn't seem to do well with was gym courses, but the principle assumed that was probably because Sam was a little overweight and small for his age, and, unlike his other classes, gym classes had freshmen and upperclassmen in it. She sighed, removing her glasses to absently rub away a smear near the corner. Kids could be cruel to each other, but so far she hadn't heard anything about possible concerns from the other teachers, so she had to assume everything was going fine.

Dean growled, throwing his backpack into his locker with a resounding crash and slamming the door shut before everything had a chance to spill out into the hall.

The day had been a waste of time. Whatever village moron had come up with Spirit Week deserved to die. Violently. And many, many times. All it meant was that half the day was wasted for some stupid pep rally, while the other half was spent listening to people talk about the pep rally and trying to get everyone else to cheer on their home team. Exactly which team it was never mattered. The whole point was to pit the upper classes against the lower ones, and it was usually the freshmen that got the brunt of it. Dean could care less. Cheering and clapping like a toy monkey with a pair of cymbals with a hundred others doing the exact same thing was not high on his list of priorities.

Fortunately, however, he had his car. His beautiful, beautiful car. Which could drive him far, far away from the school, wherever the hell he wanted while everyone else stayed in school to cheer on a bunch of assholes in uniform.

"Hey, Dean?"

Dean turned and saw his brother standing nearby, a stack of books in his hands that probably outweighed him, even if there were only three.

"Yeah, Sammy?" Dean smiled as his little brother cringed at the nickname.

"Can you please stop calling me that? I like 'Sam'," Sam argued, rolling his eyes in irritation.

"Depends. What do you want?"

"Can I catch a ride home with you now instead of walking home later?"

Dean would've let Sam go anywhere with him, except it was his right and duty as older brother to give him a hard time about it. "I dunno, _Sammy_. You being a freshman and all, they might stop us at the doors before we can make an escape. Are you worth the risk of getting caught and me having to sit through that god awful rally?"

Sam smiled brightly. "You actually have a better chance of getting out of here with me than by yourself."

Now Dean was intrigued. "Go on."

"Well, let's face it Dean. You're not a model student. You spend more than half your time in detention or in the office, so when people see you leaving early, who knows what you're up to? But…if you had your younger, sweet, innocent brother who the desk lady loves with you…." Sam let the sentence hang.

Dean couldn't resist a smile. "You're too smart for your own good. Come on, let's go."

Sure enough, Sam was right, though Dean would never admit it. When the desk lady first saw him, it looked like she was about to protest until she saw Sam next to him, slightly hidden behind his brother's larger frame. With a quick wave and a brilliant smile, Dean and Sam were in the clear.

"You know, you still haven't told me where you got this car," Sam said as they walked, eyeing the '65 Impala, which Dean had parked at the farthest end of the student parking lot. As far as Sam knew, Dean had just driven it home one day and that was that. He was pretty sure his brother didn't have enough money to buy a car like that, and he was really hoping he hadn't stolen it.

"And I'm not going to. Trade secret. If I did tell you, I'd have to kill you. And if I came home without you, dad'll kill _me_. So to avoid all the blood and death, I won't tell you."

"You are such a dick, you know that?" Sam said, shaking his head.

"I try, bro…I try." Dean smirked, rifling through his pockets looking for his keys. After going through his coat pockets and jeans and not finding them he groaned. "Goddammit! Sammy, I'll be right back, ok? Don't go anywhere and stay off the car."

"You forgot your keys in your backpack, didn't you?" Sam stated, unable to suppress a laugh.

"You want a ride home or not?"

Sam clamped his mouth shut, giving his best angelic look, which he full well knew was useless on his brother. Had been for years, but that didn't stop him from trying.

"Thought so." With that, Dean started jogging back towards the school.

"You know, this wouldn't happen if you just brought your bag home with you!" Sam called after him.

Either Dean was too far away to hear him, or he was ignoring him again, because he neither replied nor gave any indication Sam had spoken.

Blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes, Sam dropped his bag on the ground and hopped up on the hood of the car. If he sat just the right way Dean couldn't tell at a distance whether or not he was standing and just leaning against the car, or actually sitting on it.

"Hey, if it isn't Pillsbury!"

_Aw, crap_.

Sam turned to see Brad Renshaw and his group of lackeys from the football team swaggering towards him. He didn't think people actually swaggered, like they did in books, but after the few months he'd spent here watching Brad walk around like he owned the school and everyone in it, he was proven incorrect.

"What do you want?" Sam grumbled.

"Hey, is that anyway to talk to me? Where's your brother?" Brad demanded. "I want to talk to him."

Sam suddenly smiled. "He the one that gave you that shiner?" he said, noting the bright purple and blue bruise on the football player's left cheek. "Some all star catcher you are."

Brad scowled, his hand immediately going to his face. Dean Winchester threw a football like marines threw grenades: with the intent to kill. Brad had gotten cocky during gym when he caught everything the usual team quarterback could throw, so the coach decided to send in the new kid, who rarely participated at all, just to see what he was capable of.

Of course, Brad would never admit that if he had kept his mouth shut about the kid's psycho dad and loser brother, Dean might not have tried to hit him with enough force to knock him unconscious for a minute with a football.

"Shut yer trap, Doughboy," Brad growled as shoved Sam off the hood of the car. Sam's books went scattering as he landed on his back, but there was no other damage done.

"Pretty sweet ride your brother's got here. How'd he manage to get it when you live out of a hotel?" Brad said, laying an appreciative hand on the glossy hood of the car.

"He stole it," Sam quipped, sitting up. Dean never minded if Sam made him out to be the big, bad criminal mastermind of the school. Sam suspected he was actually happy with the way it cleared the crowds for him in the halls. "Why, are you jealous? You're supposed to be rich, so what do you drive? Oh, that's right…a Volvo."

The unexpected kick to his hip wiped the grin off his face as he let out a small yelp. Before he knew it, one of Brad's friends, Josh, hauled him up by his shoulders, holding the smaller boy about three inches off the ground.

"I've decided to got too much of a mouth for a kid your size. I guess I'll have to help you correct it," Brad sneered, before punching Sam in the gut.

Sam coughed and tried to double over, but the way that Josh was holding him just didn't allow for movement.

As soon as he raised his head though, his eyes widened with horror. "NO! DEAN WAIT! DON'T!" he shouted, before Brad's fist connected with his cheek.

Yeah, okay, just finished this up before going to work. Hope it flows all right. Constructive criticism welcomed, even asked for. Let me know what you guys think! 


	2. Chapter 2

All right, nobody seems to remember this line:

Sam: You know, Sammy is a chubby 12-year-old... it's Sam.

Now, with that said, I'm going off of what I remember from my guy friends in high school. If they were pudgy twelve year olds, it took them until they were at least fifteen or sixteen to hit a growth spurt and get that cursed guys' metabolism that I envy. Now, I agree with some of you. I wouldn't expect Sam to be a pudgy kid considering what they do for a living, however: I do not write the show, and that was how they described him. That being said…Holy Crap, I did not expect that many reviews during my shift at Dunkin Donuts. THANK YOU!  And as a reward, I'll update that much faster. In another side note, this chapter isn't originally what I had planned, but I like it almost a little bit better.

Second note: My computer committed suicide and took a huge chunk of files with it, the bastard. So I had to write this again from scratch. Please let me know if there are chunks that don't go together, and the usual – spelling, grammar, etc. Also, thanks to everyone who corrected me about the car…I knew the year, I just typed it wrong and never fixed it. Oops.  I still favor the Mustang over the Impala though.

As Brad turned his head to see the expected irate older Winchester to be coming down on him but there was nothing, nobody was anywhere nearby. And then suddenly white hot pain exploded in his groin.

Brad turned as predicted, and Sam lashed out with his foot, striking the older boy in the crotch as hard as he could. Before the other two boys could react, Sam threw his head back, the back of his skull connecting with the fragile cartilage of Josh's nose. Josh immediately dropped him, and as soon as Sam's feet hit the ground, he dropped to a crouch and swung his left leg out in a sweeper kick, knocking the older boy on his back, blood spurting from his nose. As soon as he knew the boy was down, Sam dropped into the defensive stance that had been ingrained into his mind since he was five, one fisted hand dropped by his hip and the other up to protect his face.

The third boy, Mike, didn't look like he knew what he was doing. A tiny, insignificant freshman, and a bookworm at that, had just dropped two of the biggest guys in the senior class. Not to mention the kid had a crazy ass older brother to watch out for, and now that his buddies were out for the count, he wasn't at all intent on sticking around. Mike took off running back to the school.

Sam dropped his hands, releasing a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"You…lied…" Brad gasped.

"Yeah. I did. I can be a shit about that," Sam replied dismissively, bending down to pick up his books.

He stepped carefully over Brad's prone form, before bending down to look him in the eye. "You thought that with a brother like Dean I wouldn't know how to defend myself? And if you think about how easily I took you and your friend out and I'm half your size, imagine what will happen if my brother catches you touching his car again."

"I'll get you for this," Brad growled, slowly getting to one knee but not quite kneeling.

Sam rolled his eyes. He'd hunted demons for a living since he was nine. An overly hormonal teenaged boy was the least of his problems.

"Now Sammy, what have I told you about playing nice with others?" his brother called. Dean, in his usual manner, had decided to make an appearance _after_ Sam could have used his help. "I just saw Mike tearing out of here like the army was after him."

"What did you do, take the longest way possible to your locker?" Sam demanded.

"I had to!" Dean smirked, barely glancing down at Brad. "The Principal was in the hallway, I had to be creative if you didn't want to be waiting out here for another two hours while I was stuck at the rally."

"Yeah well, you owe me. Brad touched your car," Sam said as Dean popped the lock on the passenger side.

Dean stopped. "Excuse me?"

Sam smirked. Figured, his brother would be more concerned about the car being touched than his little brother being smacked around, but then again, Sam almost appreciated Dean's cavalier attitude about him sometimes. Everyone else seemed to have this overprotective drive to make sure nothing ever happened to him. It's not that Dean and his father didn't care about him, they just knew exactly what he could or could not handle and let him face the less than supernatural forces of evil, such as bullies or bitch-tastic teachers, on his own.

"Yeah, he left a nice handprint on the hood of the Impala. You might have to kill him," Sam answered absently, tossing his bag into the back seat of the car.

"I just might, if he doesn't move before I hit the gas," Dean grumbled as Brad and Josh staggered to their feet, Brad still partially bent over and grabbing at his groin while Josh pinched his still bleeding nose. Dean slammed down on the horn. "Think you can go any slower! You pussies, you didn't even break anything!"

Sam smiled at his brother, nothing ever went fast enough for him. He'd be the type to fall asleep skydiving or on a roller coaster. He gently prodded at his cheek where Brad hit him. It was getting puffy, and would definitely leave a bruise, but it was far from the worst injury he'd received.

"How's your face?" Dean asked as he gunned the engine, Mike and Brad having finally stumbled far enough out of the way that Dean could pull out.

"It's fine, just need some ice. Brad hits like a girl," Sam said, turning his head so his brother could glance at the injury.

Dean laughed. "Yeah, he does."

"By the way, _thanks _for all your help, you ass. What's the deal with leaving me to defend myself with the odds three to one? I thought you were supposed to watch out for me!" Sam said.

"Oh, piss and moan. I was watching you, just from a distance. And for the record, you did just fine on your own. If you couldn't handle three human bullies by now you'd be dead and you know it," Dean pointed out.

"Jackass."

"I'm you're older brother. It's part of the job description. Now shut up and let me drive," Dean said as he punched the radio button and ACDC blasted through the Impala.

Their motel was on the outskirts of town, shabby but still clean compared to some of the joints they'd stayed in over the years, isolated from the rest of the population. It looked like some invisible dividing line lay just beyond the rundown building. Nothing went past it, just the one road leading out of town.

John liked it because it meant he could come and go and no one would see it.

Sam liked it because he could go out and play and not encounter anyone, from school or otherwise.

Dean hated it because there was nothing to do, near the motel or otherwise.

But for the moment, it was home.

As the pulled into the empty parking lot, Sam remembered a question Brad had brought up during their 'conversation.' "Hey Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Where'd you get the car?"

Dean turned towards his brother as he turned the ignition. The sudden quiet was deafening. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"Yeah right. Where'd you get the car?" Sam pestered.

"I stole it."

"You did not!" Sam protested as he followed his brother to their room. Dean smiled brilliantly at him. "You didn't…did you?" When Dean remained silent, Sam suddenly wasn't so sure what he'd told Brad was a lie. "Dad wouldn't let you keep a stolen car. Not in a million years!"

"Yeah Sammy, 'cause what we do for a living is oh so very legal."

They were still arguing when their dad got home from his temp job at the local mechanics.

Brad Renshaw was not one to tolerate being made a fool of. He might not be the smartest guy in school, but he had the uncanny ability to convince all his buddies that his ideas were great, and that they should carry them out for him. After all, he wouldn't want to get the credit for something they did, now would he?

Another little known fact was that Brad had two separate groups of friends. The ones the school saw him with, like the rest of the football team and the cheerleaders, and the ones he saw in the privacy of the abandoned lot behind the soccer field.

"I want them humiliated," Brad growled. "They think they're so tough, I want to see what the little shits can do against you guys. Their dad is gone all day every day, so you won't have a problem with him. The older one usually skips out after seventh period, and his brother usually goes with him. No one's around then."

"What you paying?"

"Five hundred dollars." Brad held up the wad of cash, which he had stolen from his parents' bedroom safe. As the other reached for it, he pulled it back. "Don't kill them, that'll draw too much attention. And if you so much as breathe my name to anyone, I'll take you down so fast your head will spin. Got it?"

"Yeah, whatever pretty boy. Give me the fucking money." He snatched it from Brad's hand. "We get caught though, you're going down with us."

"Then don't get caught."

Wow. So not what I had planned. We'll see where this goes; I'm working on it in my head as we speak…dangerous thought, yes? Leave thoughts, comments, suggestions, reviews…whatever your little heart desires. For those of you who don't believe people like Brad exist in high school, you might be right. But they exist in college, so I figure they come from somewhere. Now…to geology class! Yay for mass wasting and streambed valleys! WOO!


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Ok, I know I have the year of the Impala wrong in the actual story, but I'm too lazy to change it. Also, thank you for being patient. My computer crashed, and took a lot with it, and then my apartment was in a flooding zone so I hoofed it back home to wait out the flood in New Hampshire, and then I got a full time job that basically allows me 4 hours a day to myself, most of which is spent watching TV or something else. So…hopefully people are still reading this. Thanks for hanging in!

Oh yeah, I should mention this: When I started this, I didn't know where the Impala came from, so in this story, it has a different history, rather than John giving it to Dean.

Disclaimer: I wish…

Brad Renshaw wasn't nearly as clever as he thought he was. If he was, he might have suspected that Brian O'Rourke was just the type of person Dean Winchester would be friends with. He might have even known that he wasn't nearly as sneaky or underhanded as he planned.

As it turned out, Brian O'Rourke, the resident terror of Monte Cristo High School of southern California, was the first person the Winchesters encountered when they started school. Brian had the ingenious thought to try and throw his weight around with the newbie's dorky little brother. He hadn't expected the kid to nail him in the shin as hard as he could, or to see his two buddies Hector and Corey thrown against the wall in less than a second by the dork's much bigger, and much scarier, brother.

After Dean had threatened to remove Brian's intestines with a tuning fork, introductions were made. Brian liked the brothers immediately, despite having to hobble around for the rest of the day. No one else had bothered to stand up to Brian when he threatened them on their first day, and Brian always liked audacity. Dean decided Brian was the only one really worth talking to after his first day, and found his twisted sense of humor to his liking. Sam liked anyone, once they apologized for trying to take his money.

Yes, if Brad was half as smart as he thought he was, he would have noticed his paid lackey was in fact conspiring with the enemy.

"We have a bounty on our heads?" Dean said in wonderment as Brian handed him two hundred and fifty dollars.

"An expensive one too," Brian said, fanning himself with his left over twenties. "I suppose I could've kept it all for myself and found something naughty to do to you, but I figured – that's way too much effort."

"I might have had to hit you with my car then," Dean replied.

Sam, who was only half paying attention to the conversation while he finished up the last paragraph on a history report snorted. "Like you would do anything to damage that car."

"Fine, beat you to within an inch of your life," Dean suggested. "Either way, you'd not be happy with the results."

"Now, exactly what did you two fine, upstanding gentlemen do to Mr. Star Athlete that made him go through the agony of parting with daddy's money?" Brian asked, fanning himself with a couple of twenties.

The brothers were silent for a moment, and at first Brian thought they wouldn't say. That is, until little Sammy's cheeks started to blush bright scarlet.

"Aw, _damn_! Little Sammy Winchester took out the big bad Brad?" Brian couldn't help but burst out laughing. "Goddammit, now I wish I hadn't skipped out early!"

"I didn't do that much," Sammy said, burying his nose further in his textbook. He couldn't help the small smile though at the enthusiastic congratulations Brian gave him.

Wiping away a tear, Brian tried to bring his laughter under control, but wasn't very successful. "Now I'm gonna be seeing that image all day!" He made a hand motion that Sam assumed was supposed to be Sam pulling some sort of fantastic ninja move on Brad, before bursting out laughing again.

"So, Sam," Dean said, "how's it feel to warrant a bounty? You ain't even a sophomore yet."

Sam's answer was cut off by the three minute warning bell, letting everyone know the school day was about to begin.

"All right fellas, I'll catch you 'round later," Brian said, clapping Dean on the back as he headed off for class. "I have art class with a couple of hotties who dig the dark and broody shit. If you get in any more trouble…wait till I'm around, huh?"

As soon as he was off, Sam shot a warning glance to his brother. "I know what you're thinking, and don't you even dare. Dad will kill you if we have to move before he finds something else to hunt."

"Always Mr. Sunshine, aren't you? What makes you think I'm considering doing anything besides going to…" Dean glanced down at a ragged slip of white paper with his schedule on it. "Classic lit?"

"Because I know you, and _Dorian Gray_ isn't your style. Besides, Brad is in that class."

Dean's eyes lit up. "You're right…"

"Dean! Focus!" Sam snapped.

"I am focusing."

"Focus on something _legal_."

"Go to class, Sammy. I'll pick you up after eighth period."

&SN&

Penelope Marquette had been teaching high school literature for five years now, and she loved every moment of it. All of the older teachers, the ones seasoned by more than twenty years in the field warned her that eventually she would become disenchanted with her job and loathe having to come in every morning, just like the students. Penelope was not convinced. Her family members were all teachers in some form or another. One was a history professor at Mercyhurst College in Pennsylvania, another a drill instructor in the Navy, and even a cousin who was a self-defense instructor. Teaching was in her blood.

As the students filed in, Penelope smiled at each of them. Some were barely awake enough to stagger to their seats, clutching at their Dunkin Donuts cups as though they were a life preserver, while others smiled brilliantly back.

"Why hello, Miss Penelope. And how are you this fine sunny California morning?"

Even though she had turned her back for only a moment while she glanced at her lesson plan, checking to make sure it was today's, she knew who it was. Dean Winchester always greeted her the same way, though on occasion the enthusiasm would fluctuate. Today, Mr. Winchester was positively glowing.

And that always was a reason to be suspicious.

"Good morning, Dean. Did you actually do your homework this time?" she asked, carefully stacking papers for the afternoon class's quiz on Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

"What a thing to ask," Dean said, holding a hand over his chest as though wounded. "Would I have anything better to do on a Wednesday night besides read _Charlotte Temple_?"

"Knowing you, I'm sure you could think of something. Take a seat, Mr. Winchester," Ms. Marquette instructed.

With a brilliant smile that had most of her female students drooling from the corner of their mouths, Dean took his usual seat – the farthest to the back and near a corner. At least that way, when he slept when he thought she wasn't looking, he could still sit upright and appear attentive.

Dean Winchester was perhaps one of the greater mysteries of Ms. Penelope's career. He was an extremely capable student – whenever he actually sat still long enough to do the assigned reading, he actually managed to grasp the deeper meanings in the books, where most of her students had to read things six or seven times over and still couldn't understand the underlying messages of the story. While she suspected that his short stories she had her students write about his family life were a complete lie, they were beautifully scripted. However, she had witnessed him out of class on a few occasions, and she knew how this new student could earn such a reputation in such a short span of time. Winchester could be terrifying if he wanted to be, despite his normally affable and almost goofy attitude. He was always on edge. She noticed he never spoke out of turn, never mentioned anything about his family, how he came to California, or even where he used to live. The school records were sketchy at best, with signatures that looked suspiciously alike on the transfer papers from various schools. Everything he said, every move he made, was a carefully calculated maneuver.

And to be honest, he scared her a little.

Penelope went back to writing down names on her attendance notebook, until she caught Dean leaning over the desk in front of him to jab Brad Renshaw forcefully between the shoulder blades with a pen.

"What the hell is your problem, Winchester?" Brad snarled, rubbing at the area Dean had stabbed him.

"I just wanted to tell you a couple things you might've overlooked about hiring someone out to do your dirty work. One, it takes a lot more money to convince O'Rourke to do anything besides sit around and scratch his ass than what you gave him, and two, don't hire the friend of the guy you're trying to whack to do the job. That's just fucking stupid."

Brad's perfectly tanned face went from bright red to pasty white.

"And now you're out five hundred with nothing to show for it except a impacted testicle and a voice an octave higher."

"Mr. Winchester!" Ms. Marquette snapped, pointing to a seat in the front row. "How would you like to sit up front today, hmm?"

"Can't resist me, huh?" Dean said, winking before grabbing his books. "See you later, Brad."

Brad flipped him the bird as he sauntered past, before whispering to his friends. After a moment, the group nodded, apparently agreeing with whatever Brad suggested.

Ms. Penelope was a lot things, and naïve was not one of them. She knew that Renshaw and the Winchesters did not get along, and that whatever warning Dean had given Brad had fallen on deaf ears. However, another thing that Ms. Penelope was not was stupid. Dean and his brother were much more capable of defending themselves against Brad and his lackeys than the school administration was.

"All right class," she announced, "who wants to tell us what the main theme of _Charlotte Temple_?"


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry about the longish delay. I've been caught up in other things, namely finals and being sick as a dog with a cold that makes me sound like I have a severe case of emphysema. That, and I've been a little stuck on what Brad's revenge would be, but I think I figured it out. I hope I don't short change you guys.

It was nearing Christmas time, though by looking out the windows at the southern California landscape, it could have passed for somewhere in July.

"I hate California," Dean grumbled, stabbing randomly at his cafeteria food. "This no season crap is really boring. We need snow."

"I thought you hated snow," Sam said, eating his pre-packed sandwich. For some reason, his brother always had the foresight to pack his little brother a lunch, but always neglected his own. "You know, ever since that car accident last year."

"No, I hate _ice_ because of that. Snow is still good," Dean corrected. "Of course, after four months of staring at a landscape that looks suspiciously like every backdrop of a post-apocalyptic movie, _anything_ would be better. Including the apocalypse."

"You're just mad because you can't form snowballs out of sand to pitch at Brad," Brian said around a mouthful of only God knew what. He swallowed it down with a healthy swig of grape soda.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You two are _still_ going at it?"

"Of course," Dean said, throwing his fork down in disgust. "The bastard still teases you, doesn't he?"

"From like ten feet away. Not exactly scary stuff, Dean," Sam pointed out. He pushed the bag of peanut m&m's over to his brother.

"Yeah, but don't forget, they're still on the same ball team." Brian was now chowing down on something that looked like green spaghetti, and Sam watched in fascinated horror as he swallowed whole.

"You're a freak of nature when you eat, you know that?" Sam said, not trying to keep the look of disgust off his face. "And so what if they're on the same football team? Doesn't the coach notice if Dean tries to shoot Brad?"

"No shooting involved," Dean said, holding up a hand as if pledging to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. "Yet."

"You have to keep in mind that these guys don't practice with all their gear all the time," Brian reminded. He popped open another can of grape soda. "Those two slam into one another like fright trains when the coach isn't paying attention. Ow!" Brian rubbed at his shin. "What the hell was that for?"

Dean glowered at his friend, a withering stare that would've had most students running in the opposite direction. "Remember when I told you _don't tell Sammy_?"

Brian grumbled as he rubbed his shin again. "No."

"I thought you said you hit a truce?" Sam demanded. His brother had been coming home after every practice walking like he'd gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson and a couple angry spirits. Sam figured it was just normal practice soreness, like when he and his brother sparred. Sam was angry with Dean for hiding his injuries, but he was angrier with himself for not noticing.

"They hit something all right," Brian snorted. He flinched to the side when Dean raised his fist. "Uncle!"

"One more word out of you, and the next thing you'll be eating is a knuckle sandwich, got it?" Dean snarled.

"I got it, I got it!" Brian protested, still holding his hands up to protect his face. "And I thought _I _was supposed to be the baddest kid in school."

"No, you're bad," Sam assured him. "Just in the delinquent way, not the scary one."

"I'll take what I can get at this rate," Brian grumbled. "Your brother has taken almost every reputation. The Hot New Guy, The Bad Guy, The Tough Guy, the Hot Car Guy…"

"Can we find a different subject?" Dean asked.

"How come you didn't tell me you and Brad were still fighting?" Sam asked.

"Never mind, we can go back to the list subject."

"The Strong Silent Guy, the Brooding Guy…" Brian cheerfully piped up. "TSHT guy…"

"Wait, what the hell does that stand for?"

"My sister was using it. Means 'that sexy homicidal thing'. Personally, I don't see it." Brian shrugged. "But then, I'm not a chick."

"Thank God for small favors, huh?" Dean said. He popped another M&M in his mouth. Lunch of champions, chocolate was.

"Screw you, dude," Brian said, shoving the older Winchester.

"You two are dating now?" a snide voice interjected.

Dean rolled his eyes and had to fight not to bang his head against the table. "Go away, Brad. We agreed to keep it on the field."

"Yeah, but I've decided rules are changing." Brad could talk tough, sure. Just like anyone could with a group of four guys off the defensive line of the football team. "You're beginning to make us look like idiots out on the field. We don't like it."

Dean turned to face Brad, twisting around on the bench and leaning back against the table, his elbows resting comfortably on top. "I have a solution for that: learn how to play, or learn how to take a hit."

"You think you're such tough shit," Brad snarled, his lackeys nodding in agreement.

"And so does half the school, according to the rumor vine. Wanna see why?" Dean asked casually. "I really have no interest in picking a fight with you, Brad. Not here, not now, and since practice is about to be cancelled for the holidays, not on the field either. So just go cower in the corner and hiss at people that get too close like the pussies you are."

"Or what?"

Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Sam. "Or I'll be forced to get my brother to kick your ass again. Except it really wasn't your ass he kicked last time, was it?"

Brad opened his mouth to reply, but instead anything escaping, a loud crack split the air.

Both Winchesters were on their feet immediately, Dean pushing Brad out of the way as he scanned the crowd of students.

A second and third crack followed, and then the screaming started.

"There," Sam hissed, pointing towards the double-door entrance. Dean had already spotted it, and shoved his brother behind him. People were shoving and screaming, trying to get away from the entrance as fast as possible. There were several screams and grunts of pain as people were trampled underfoot as the crowd surged past them.

"What the fuck is that?" Brad asked, too stupid to recognize a gunshot when he heard one.

"Winchester SXR," Sam and Dean automatically answered.

Dean's eyes slid to the floor to ceiling windows on the far wall, but immediately nixed the idea: the cafeteria was on the third floor. Second floor would have been possible, the first preferred, but three stories up meant more than broken legs, especially since the windows over looked the parking lot.

"There's only one exit," Sam needlessly reminded him, clutching at the back of his brother's jacket. Sam may be an experienced hunter who had seen the kind of evil that usually sent grown men crying, but he was still a kid, barely a teenager. And when all the evils of the supernatural world tried to get him, they always met the same incredible force: his brother. Sam held onto the hope that if his older brother could banish an evil spirit back to hell, he could save him from whatever the real world could come up with.

"EVERYONE DOWN ON THE GROUND NOW!" a voice bellowed over the hysterical crowd.

Another shot split the air, and ceiling tile shattered to the ground. Several girls screamed.

"SHUT UP!" the voice commanded. "I SAID SHUT UP!"

Dean could clearly see the gunman now, even as he back up with his brother between him and the wall. There was only one, and he had a ski mask over his head. But he was too small to be an adult, and had the wiry, thin build of a young kid. Which meant it was probably a student who was _really_ pissed off. "Brian, Brad, get down, move against the wall. Keep the tables between you and him."

Brian immediately slid underneath the table in a smooth, liquid motion, but Brad seemed frozen in place. The idea that a gunman was in the school seemed beyond his comprehension.

"Get _down_," Dean hissed.

Brad still didn't move, and the gunman was aiming at the crowd now.

"_BRAD!_" Dean snarled, lunging forwards and grabbing the football player's belt. He pulled him down so fast that his head hit against the lunch table bench. But a mild concussion is better than being dead.

Dean immediately pushed back against his brother, effectively blocking Sam from anyone's sight and using his own body as a shield.

Brian slid up next to him, fearful eyes still on the kid with a rifle, saying something to one of the kids up front. The gun is aimed at a girl's forehead, as she shakes and sobs uncontrollably.

"This is not an execution!" the kid shouted, easily heard over the sudden deathly silence that filled the once bustling hall. Only the occasional sob and scream as the gun swung from one person to another. "Not unless you make it!" he amended, pointing the gun at the same girl who was starting to hyperventilate. "This is a hostage situation!"

_Fucking brilliant_, Dean thought darkly. _The one place I don't carry a gun, I get held hostage_.

Author's Note: So, see that one coming? This is loosely based on an event near my school, though a fair amount of time has passed since. I hope it's still worth reading, and I hope you comment on it, good, bad, suggestions of any sort…all are welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Writer's block of the worst possible kind and a fight with the administration of my school both prompted this chapter, and prevented me from writing on it as dutifully as I should. Many apologies, and while it may seem like a little bit of a cop out, I assure you, the reprieve will not last long.

"What does he want?" Brian hissed.

"How the hell would I know?" Dean growled. "Judging by the gun, I'd say he wants to shoot someone."

"Isn't there supposed to be some type of security in the building?" Brad said.

"It's called Pete, and he's probably down at the lounge stealing coffee," Sam replied, speaking of the school's stereotypical rent-a-cop security guard who probably wouldn't know how to shoot a gun, let alone take down a psychopath. He peered around his brother's shoulder at the gunman. "Hey Dean, he looks kinda small, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, it's a Goddamned student. Wonder what pushed him over the edge, eh Brad?" Dean said, shooting a glare at the football player.

Brad was still rubbing at the side of his head where it connected to the table when Dean pulled him out of the line of sight. "You're blaming me for this?"

"Hey, if the shoe fits."

"Brad, Dean, could you kill one another later? I'd prefer to only witness one traumatic experience a day, thank you very much," Brian whispered.

The gunman no longer had his rifle trained on the girl's head, but he hadn't moved very far. The poor girl was still in hysterics, and the boys couldn't blame her. Most people weren't used to having weapons point blank towards their heads. At least now her friends were trying to comfort her.

"Where is Principal Meyers?" the gunman demanded.

Someone in the front row spoke up, apparently without thinking since they immediately ducked their head back down again.

"I'm sorry, but you're all stuck here until Principal Meyers and Superintendent Coleman agree to my demands," the gunman stated.

Dean glanced back at Sam. "Dude, does he sound like he knows what he's doing?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Not everyone has your criminal genius, bro. I'd hope he didn't know what he was doing because otherwise it means he's done it before." Sam paused for a moment. "Don't you even think about giving him pointers, Dean. Dad'll kill you."

"Jake?" A woman's voice asked, loudly enough to be heard above the crowd. "Jake Taylor?"

The gunman looked up, startled, at the sound of the voice.

"Aw, crap," Dean muttered, seeing the lone teacher standing up from the floor.

Penelope Marquette's faith in the human soul would be her downfall, and from what they were seeing, it would be relatively soon.

"It is you Jake, I know it," Penelope said soothingly, cautiously stepping forwards a few steps. "How could I forget? You were such a lovely student."

"Miss Marquette, please sit back down. I don't want to hurt you, but I will," Jake said. In that one statement, his voice changed. No longer did he sound unsure, but instead cold, with a disturbing calm.

Dean knew that voice, and he knew what it meant.

"What do you want Jake?" Penelope asked, keeping her eyes on her student instead of the gun.

"I already told you – I want Meyers and Coleman down here now," Jake said.

"Honey, Coleman lives an hour away, he might not even know what's going on right now. Principal Meyers has probably left the building already with the rest of the students. Why don't you tell me what you want?"

"Goddamnit, Marquette, sit back down…" Dean hissed, fighting the urge to shove her back down. But as much as Dean liked Miss Marquette, his brother's safety took priority. Sam's hands were still clenching the back of his leather coat, whether because he was scared or because he didn't want his brother doing something stupid was a toss up.

Jake pulled off the ski mask now that his cover was blown, before raising the rifle and taking aim at Penelope. "Miss Marquette, I really do like you. But I will kill you if you do not stop moving."

Penelope stopped for a moment, and Dean thought she was going to listen to Jake's demands.

"You don't really want to shoot me, do you Jake?" Penelope asked.

"Is she trying to get herself killed?" Brian whispered.

"She's pretty damn close to succeeding," Dean answered.

"Just tell us what you want," Penelope urged. "At least tell us why you're holding us hostage."

"Because they won't let me leave, I won't let you either," Jake said.

The brothers shared a confused look. What?

Penelope looked just as puzzled. "Who won't let you leave?"

"Meyers and Coleman, they say I have to stay. And I will not stay here a second longer than I have to. I will fucking graduate in May, or I will kill as many as I can, as fast as I can, and I will start with you."

"They won't let you graduate?" Penelope said, her eyes widening in genuine shock. "Why on Earth not? You're one of the smartest students I've ever had, and I'm not saying that because you have a gun."

Dean fought the urge to laugh at the statement. It was just so Miss Marquette style to be outraged over a plight of her students no matter what the circumstances.

"They say I don't have the right credits to graduate," Jake said. "Something about a missing seminar class that I need."

"Wait, that portfolio seminar?" Penelope asked. "For English credits?"

"Yeah."

"That's only offered one semester every three years! That's ridiculous!" Penelope shouted. "What in hell were they thinking, making that a requisite for graduation? Damned bureaucrats!"

Jake laughed outright. "Thanks for the support Miss M, but it won't do any good. I've tried to fight it, I've been arguing with them for almost a year. They won't budge on it. Which is why I have been forced to this circumstances. Please sit back down."

"Dean, he's going to kill her," Sam whispered in his brother's ear. "He's lost it."

"How do you know?" Dean asked.

"I have one of those feelings…like that one before you almost drowned," Sam said.

Dean remembered the incident well – what Sam didn't mention was that they were hunting a water demon and it had pulled him under for almost minutes before his dad fished him out. Sam's bad feelings were unnervingly accurate.

"Do something," Sam pleaded.

Gritting his teeth, Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Brian, keep an eye on Sammy, 'cause if I get myself killed, I'd like to be able to follow that white light."

"What the hell are you talking about?" said Brian.

"Sammy, stay here. Someone will need to give me a decent eulogy, and we know it won't be Dad."

Before Sam or Brian could protest, Dean was on his feet, hands up in a placating manner and moving towards Jake Taylor.

Penelope couldn't believe what she was seeing. Her heart was already threatening to beat out of her chest as she stared down the long barrel of the rifle, but now it felt like it was going to explode.

Dean Winchester suddenly stood in the crowd, hands up to show he had no weapons.

"Hey, Jake," he said, smiling with an ease she couldn't fathom under the circumstances. "Nice rifle. But don't you think it's a little melodramatic for the point you're trying to make?"

"Dean!" Penelope hissed. "Sit back down!"

"We're not in class anymore, Miss Marquette."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Jake demanded, the Winchester swinging towards the teenager now. "If you want to survive this, you better do what your teacher says."

"Who says I want to?" Dean asked. "Maybe I have a death wish like you. Hell, I've already managed to get on a hit list and I've only been here for four months. I picked a fight with the school bully in less than 20 minutes of being here, and I have a better chance of surviving a car wreck than my after school activities."

"You may not value your life, but someone else probably does," Jake cautioned, not moving his gun.

"And what, no one values yours? Where are your parents? Do they really want to spend the rest of their lives visiting you behind bars? Or, better yet, in a graveyard?" Dean sidestepped two hysterical girls on the floor.

"My parents are the reason I'm doing this!" Jake protested. "I can't stay here longer than four years, or I won't get into college with my scholarship, and they can't afford to send me without it.

Penelope was now warring with herself about whether or not she should kill Dean herself, or let the gunman do it. What would possibly possess a boy his age to willingly step in front of a gun, and not only that, but _antagonize_ him further? Was Winchester completely off his rocker?

Dean rolled his eyes at Jake's statement. "Yeah, and getting your ass thrown in jail seems like a real great way to impress the colleges. If you put the gun down now, maybe you're entire future won't be blown to hell."

"There's no other way to get them to listen! I need them to understand that this is their last chance. I'm prepared to go to jail and finish my degree there, if that's what it takes…but this will be the last time any of them screw with someone's future." Surprisingly, Jake seemed fairly level headed, considering he seemed to bounce back and forth between wanting to get onto college as planned and the next moment willing to wait out a sentence in jail.

Dean cocked his head to the side. "So let me get this straight, Jake. You want to go to college, but at the same time you're willing to go to prison for twenty years. This plan seems less than brilliant. If you wanted to make that kind of statement, why not just blow up Meyer's car? What's the point in hostages?"

"I don't have to defend myself to you," Jake snarled.

"I'm a hostage! Better yet, I'm a hostage who doesn't believe you actually have the balls to pull that trigger, no matter what I do. You're pissed off, I get that. But that's no excuse for crappy planning. Did you even make a couple of threats? Or did you just pout when they told you that you had to take that extra class and come up with this on the bus ride home?" Dean shouted. He was now only a few feet from Jake, hands still raised near his waist, but Penelope was beginning to wonder who she should be more concerned about.

What perhaps disturbed her the most about the whole interaction between Jake and Dean was that Dean seemed almost comfortable with the situation. What had the young man experienced that would make him okay with having a rifle pointed at him by an insane student? The rumors that Dean Winchester was actually a mercenary and a sociopath were beginning to sound more realistic. Or maybe he was just John Wayne reincarnated…

If she hadn't chosen that second to blink, she may have seen exactly what made Dean leap at Jake, tackling him to the ground. One second Dean was still six feet away, and the next, both boys were on the ground, wrestling for control of the gun.

Penelope knew who was going to win, before it even registered in her mind what had really just happened.

Dean wrenched the rifle out of Jake's grip, who was too busy trying to stem the flow of blood from his now broken nose. With expert ease, Dean ejected the spent shell from the cartridge, peering down the barrel of the gun before looking down at Jake in disbelief.

"You only had three cartridges?" he asked incredulously. "What the hell were you planning on doing if the cops got here?" A look of sudden realization dawned on Winchester's face and he glanced up at the ceiling. Penelope followed his gaze, but saw nothing out of place.

"You were shooting _blanks_?" Dean roared, snapping barrels back into place. "I risked my fucking life for goddamned blanks? What the _hell _were you thinking?"

"I told you, I just wanted them to understand how far I was _willing_ to go if they didn't let me graduate," Jake hissed through tears. Penelope felt kind of bad for the poor boy…when she broke her nose in elementary school, it seemed like the most painful experience of her life.

Dean stared at the boy on the ground. "You're a fucking idiot, kid, you know that?"

Jake glowered at him silently, blood oozing from between his fingers.

What happened next was the last thing Penelope ever expected: Dean started to laugh. Not low laughter, like he did when someone said something particularly stupid, not chuckling like when he had Brad at a loss for words, but loud, honest to God laughter.

"Jesus kid, you're fucked up," Dean managed, grinning like an idiot. "But I respect that."

Jake and Penelope stared at Dean, as did the entire cafeteria. Any doubt that Dean Winchester was certifiable was far gone.

Dean held out his hand for Jake, who looked at it as if it would bite him.

"Come on, Jake, you need to get cleaned up. Betcha chicks will dig the new rebel you," Dean said, keeping his hand outstretched.

"You're insane," Jake said, shaking his head, but allowed Dean to pull him to his feet.

"Said the kid who thought waving an unloaded gun around in a cafeteria was a convincing argument for allowing him to graduate."

Jake wisely refused to answer.

Penelope heaved a sigh of relief. What other school could boast that their one violent crime in the history of the school was diffused by the resident sociopath making friends with the gunman? Who would ever believe that this could end well for anyone involved? She witnessed it herself, and she still couldn't quite believe it. She ran a shaky hand through her hair, trying to stop the tremors wracking her frame.

"The shakes will go away when the adrenaline wears off, Miss M," Dean said. "Happens to everyone their first time."

Penelope noticed that not only was Dean not trembling in the least bit from adrenaline overload, but he also was holding the rifle comfortably under one arm as if it belonged there. "Dean, why aren't you shaking?" she asked.

For a brief moment, Dean's eyes widened as if he'd been caught in the middle of a crime before he replied smoothly, "Nerves of steel, Miss M. Like Superman."

He lifted the rifle, jokingly pretending as if he had just struck down an undefeatable villain when a disturbingly familiar crack echoed throughout the cafeteria.

The room cringed as one. Penelope's hand flew to her mouth to muffle a startled scream and Jake jumped back. Dean flinched back a step, a look of confusion crossing his face.

"DEAN!"

Sam Winchester was suddenly up and running, despite Brian O'Rourke frantically grabbing at his sweatshirt.

"Oh my God…" a girl in the front row whispered, her voice shaking violently. "Is…is that _blood_?"

For a moment, Penelope didn't understand what she was talking about. The blood on Jake's face? Why would that confuse her? She was sitting right there when Dean tackled him minutes ago. God, was it only a few minutes?

Dean was looking at his own hand, marveling at the bright red on his fingers. Had he not noticed it from earlier, Penelope wondered? Surely some blood would've gotten on his hands after hitting Jake in the face like that. But why was there so much on his shirt?

Dean dropped the rifle, the empty weapon clanking hollowly against the tile floor as Dean wavered for a moment.

"No good deed," he mumbled, still staring at his bloodied fingertips. Blood bubbled near his lips, and Penelope wondered when the stains on his shirt had grown so large.

His legs collapsed, and he crumbled to the floor as Sam dropped to his knees and skidded to a halt beside his brother.

"Dean?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

Dean's green eyes turned towards his brother's voice, but it was obvious he was struggling to focus. "Sammy? Tol' you to stay…" he slurred.

Sam sniffed. "Since when do I listen to you?"

Dean smiled through crimson lips, before his eyes widened. "Sorry, Sammy."

Sam shook his brother. "For what?"

"This…" Dean coughed, and blood flew past his lips, several droplets landing on Sam's face. His green eyes rolled in the back of his head, and his head dropped limply in his brother's hold.

"NO!"

"Did I get him?"

Penelope tore her gaze away from the horrible scene to see who spoke.

Peter the security guard stood at the entrance of the cafeteria, gun still raised in their direction.

"Call 911. Now," Penelope hissed. "Before our hero dies."

So…not quite what I was planning per-say, but I think it turned out rather well. Events inspired by a conversation between me and a friend of mine about our school not permitting us to graduate, and what we would do if they refused to listen to reason. Let me know what you want to happen next…or what you thought of this one! Comments and critiques always welcome!


	6. Chapter 6

Author's note: I considered having this chapter start immediately after the last, but then it occurred to me it would take fore

Author's note: I considered having this chapter start immediately after the last, but then it occurred to me it would take forever to write. I know nothing about trauma victims, medical procedures, or even the lingo. So, to spare everyone another six months of waiting for me to research all those things, I decided to jump ahead along the timeline. If anyone feels up to the challenge of writing the "missing scene", be my guest. I have many excuses for not updating sooner, including but not limited to: graduating college, finding a job, starting my own business, getting a new horse, cleaning out and painting my grandfather's house after he died so that we can sell it (hadn't been cleaned since the 70's), and helping a friend whose dad is dying of cancer and has maybe weeks left.

On another side note, and this isn't to be bitchy or mean, but I really do update as fast as I can. Don't harass me further by telling me I don't have a reason for not updating when you think I should. I don't do it to anyone on here, so show the same respect. Thank you!

Penelope Marquette tried not to fidget as she rode the elevator up to the sixth floor. The music playing on the loudspeaker, meant to soothe frazzled nerves, was really starting to wear on them.

Two weeks passed since the incident in the cafeteria. Two weeks since she saw two of her favorite students almost ruin their lives.

In those past fourteen days, Penelope ran the whole scenario through her head more times than she cared to consider. It was amazing how many details she could recall after the fact – the sound of the heating system turning off, the buzz of an errant fly zipping around the room, the echo of the gunshot that almost ended the life of the boy who saved them all.

Peter Welling, the school's only security feature besides locks on the doors, mistakenly shot Dean Winchester, thinking that he was the gunman holding them all hostages.

Penelope tried not to think too badly of the poor man, she really did. She tried to convince herself that the middle-aged former crossing guard couldn't tell the difference between Dean joking around and Dean threatening them with the rifle. If she had to pick between Jake Taylor and Winchester coming to school with a gun, she would've picked Dean too. The last time Peter had to fire his weapon, which the school assigned him with the caution that students could become violent and he'd need it for his own protection, was at the qualifications at the firing range before getting his current position. He panicked under the situation, and he took out the most obvious threat.

And yet, she still couldn't bring herself to look Welling in the eyes every time she passed him in the hallway. He was just as torn up about it – he was a gentle man at heart, and knowing he almost killed a hero instead of a villain had him petitioning for early retirement.

The elevator pinged and the doors squeaked open, startling her out of her thoughts and revealing a stark white hallway.

Dean was just moved out of the ICU two days ago, so visitors were finally allowed to visit outside of family. Unsurprisingly, Sam hadn't been in school for the past two weeks either. She wondered if he'd even been home in the last two weeks, or if he'd camped out beside he brother the whole time. It wouldn't shock her if he had.

Penelope took a deep breath and stepped out of the elevator just as the doors started to close again. She really didn't know why she was so apprehensive about visiting the Winchesters. She liked them, from the little interaction she had with them. But for those two boys to turn out the way they did, their father must be a force to be reckoned with. Her imagination that helped her see all the characters in the books she taught in class was now conjuring an eight foot tall behemoth who only spoke in grunts and growls with a voice like Darth Vader and an even shorter temper.

As she walked hesitantly down the hall, she glanced at the numbers on the rooms, but in her daydreaming she almost walked by room 667.

Penelope stood outside for a moment, clutching her box in her hands as if it was a life raft and she was drowning.

"He's asleep, but you can come in if you want," a gruff voice said, making Penelope jump a foot in the air.

She poked her head in the open doorway, finally seeing the man who spoke.

As far as looks went, he wasn't half bad looking. Jet-black hair graying just around the edges, a beard, which was beginning to do the same, and dark, tired looking eyes. He sat in one of the uncomfortable orange plastic chairs all hospitals seemed to have, feet propped up on the edge of Dean's hospital bed, with a thick, leather bound book propped up on his lap.

"Hi, you must be Mr. Winchester. I've heard nothing about you," Penelope greeted, trying for the humorous approach. She was rewarded with only a tired smile.

"Not surprising. Boys don't talk much about their dad. I think I embarrass them," Mr. Winchester said, dropping his feet and closing the book quietly. Penelope caught a quick glance at the title and raised an eyebrow at the Latin, wondering if the whole book was written in the same language.

"My name is Penelope Marquette, I'm Dean's lit professor. Nice to meet you," she introduced.

"Ah, so _you're_ Miss Marquette. I've most certainly heard a lot about you. Almost got yourself killed during the school hostage situation." Mr. Winchester…John, if she remembered the boys' file correctly, didn't sound condemning or cold – it was more curious than anything else.

Penelope felt herself blush. "Yes, that's me…"

At the mention of the shooting, she finally forced herself to look at Dean, who was sleeping, she assumed, with the help of the IV hooked up to one hand. His face was pale, lines apparent on it that made him seem older than seventeen years. Since the wound was to his mid-upper chest, he wasn't wearing a hospital gown, but thick white bandages cut across his torso and across his collarbone. A blue padded sling fastened around his chest below the bandages to keep his arm immobile while his shoulder healed.

"He looks…" Penelope struggled for a word.

"Like death warmed over? Craptastic?" John supplied. "Yeah, getting shot has a tendency to mess with your natural good looks."

"I am so sorry about that, Mr. Winchester. I really, truly am, and I wish I knew how to make it all right again, but I don't. I wish…so many things right now, but they don't mean a thing because wishes don't come true like that. But I do hope that your sons recover from this, and I hope you do too. I hope…" she trailed off and lamely finished, "I just hope."

John Winchester studied her carefully for a moment and Penelope tried not to fidget. After what seemed like longest minute in her life, he nodded with a short jerk of his head. "I can see why he likes you, Miss Marquette. And Dean doesn't like a lot of people. It takes a lot of guts to do what you're doing now."

"Visiting a student in the hospital?"

"No, teaching high school."

Penelope couldn't help the short, embarrassing bark of laughter, which she quickly smothered with her hand.

"But yes, coming to see the damage first hand is an act of bravery. An often underestimated one."

When John didn't say anything further, Penelope awkwardly held out the gift she brought for Dean, wrapped only with a red bow. "I was thinking about what to get him while he recovered, and flowers don't seem like Dean's thing."

John took the book from her hand, reading the title. "It's Dean's favorite. He hasn't had a copy in years. The old one practically disintegrated."

John brushed aside the ribbon around the cover, running a calloused thumb over the raised image of the black swan.

"Dean always reminded me of a black swan," Penelope said without thinking.

John raised an eyebrow. "Really."

Penelope blushed. "It's sort of silly, I know, considering the way Dean acts, and he's probably hurt me if I told him that's how I saw him, but…" she shrugged.

"Black swans are exceptions to the rules." John's mouth twitched slightly at the corner. "Dean always believed we were exceptions."

"Both your boys are exceptional. I always hope for students like them."

John smiled at that. "Sammy I can see. Boy always has his nose in a book. Always flips to the Discovery or Learning channel."

Penelope laughed quietly. "Yes, Sam is the traditional student. Always eager, always a step ahead of everyone…but Dean is…different. It's like he thinks sideways from everyone else. And he hardly ever does the work, but he's so hyper-observant that he aces all the tests just listening in class."

John was staring at her now, an almost unreadable expression on his face. Penelope tried to dig herself out of the hole she suddenly found herself in.

"What I mean is, both boys are smart, just in different ways, you know? Like the difference between two jigsaw puzzle pieces…and I'm just going to stop talking now and pretend like I said nothing beyond 'hello'." Penelope suddenly found the floor very interesting.

"So Dean is a black swan puzzle piece?" John asked.

"That's not what I meant…"

John waved off her apology. "Probably the most astute observation anyone has ever made of him. Most people see exactly what he wants them to see. He'll be pissed when he finds out that his cover is blown."

"Beg pardon?" Penelope said.

"We won't be staying in town after this. Once Dean's healed, we'll be leaving. For what it's worth, I'm glad he met you." John paused, glancing down at his still sleeping son, who actually seemed to be a little more at peace than when Penelope first arrived. "And I'm glad you got to meet _him_. Dean doesn't get the attention he deserves, except maybe from Sammy."

"Will he be all right?" Penelope asked, reaching out a tentative hand and smoothing a wrinkle near Dean's foot.

"Dean's a soldier. He'll recover."

For some reason, that simple statement sent shivers down her spine. Penelope couldn't help but think that this was not the last time Dean would wind up here. But somehow, she didn't think that he would do it any differently.

"How's Sam taking it?"

"Finally got him to go home and take a shower this morning. Wouldn't budge until he knew Dean was out of ICU. That kid will have gray hair before I do."

"He does love his brother," Penelope agreed. "Almost makes me wish I had a sibling."

"I can guarantee it wouldn't be the same. Dean's been taking care of his brother since Sammy was six months old. Most brothers don't spend half as much time with one another as those two. Frick and Frack."

"When do you think Dean will be up to moving?"

John shrugged, putting a hand lightly on Dean's, wincing only slightly when Dean shook it off in his sleep. "Doctors think in about six weeks."

"And then you'll be gone?"

"We move a lot. This is the longest we've spent in one place in a while. My work takes us on the road a lot."

"In that case, Mr. Winchester, I wish you the best of luck finding whatever it is you're looking for. For both you and your boys. I hope some day you can all leave the road for good."

John snorted. "Some wish."

"I still wish it. I'll miss them, I really will. Tell Dean thank you for what he did. He's a local hero now. Has his own wall and everything in the gym. The girls will definitely miss him in class."

Penelope turned to leave. Just as she stepped out the door she heard John Winchester talking to his son.

"Well kiddo. Finally got someone pulling for us. Hopefully she's got some good connections."

Penelope Marquette smiled to herself as she closed the door behind her and heading for the elevator.

Perhaps the Winchesters weren't normal by Southern California standards. The boys knew equally about how to load a rifle and how to write an MLA format five-paragraph essay (though Dean tried to deny it). Their father, though not the eight-foot monster her imagination conjured was a force to be reckoned with. And while she hoped for a normal life for them, she had a feeling that the Winchester boys were not meant for an average life.

They were meant for much, much more. And given Dean's bravery at the school, she could just imagine them as heroes, saving the world.

The elevator door chimed, and she fought the urge to look back. She knew she wouldn't see them again.

But then, heroes were always supposed to disappear into the sunset.

Minor Epilogue:

Penelope Marquette kept post cards from her friends' travels, taping them to a map where they had come from. By far, the pride of the collection was a worn, tattered card from a gas station in Missoula, Missouri. All it said was "Thanks for the book."


End file.
